Worth Dying For
by Razer Athane
Summary: That same day, Arthur smiles widely, "You don't have to hide. Not anymore." -Slight Merthur, Oneshot-


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Merlin.

Author's Note: Well it's certainly been... a _very_ long time since I was here. Over three years, to be exact, and back when the total fic count for this section was somewhere around two thousand for season one alone! And now it's fourteen thousand – you've been busy haven't you?

How are you, Merlin fandom? It's good to write for you again. Something important to note – Australia is yet to broadcast the third episode of season five, so I've not actually _seen_ it yet per se. "Oh but Razer wait, why are you writing this then?" BECAUSE THE GIFS ON TUMBLR GOT THE PLOT BUNNIES BREEDING. So this'd be basically an AU... Enjoy!

EDIT: I've now seen it. MY FEELS.

* * *

**WORTH DYING FOR**

* * *

A man, cloaked in a blue hate.

"Merlin has –"

A man, breaking at the seams.

A horn roars through the room. Its sound resonates between flesh and stone. The ghostly form of Uther Pendragon dissipates into nothing, mouth agape. His son remains, watching where he had been as he pulls the horn away from his lips and just _stares_. He does nothing but stare, because if he dares to do anything else, he knows he'll snap.

There is silence for many long moments, and he fears that it is that that will destroy him. His eyes soon drift to Merlin, who is watching him just as intently and appears just as frightened. Given the spears that are holding him against the wall, he can understand, but surely he's used to danger by now.

And as he approaches to help him down, he snaps with a sob. There's a hurricane of emotions that he can't control – he's so hurt from the words of his Father, so confused by why he couldn't accept him and his decisions, so angry that it had to come to this and that his Father, the man who made Merlin his servant, _wanted_ to kill him.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and that's all he can manage.

Merlin offers him a light smile, but he's trembling. Uther almost revealed his secret, and if Arthur dared to fall into temptation again with the Horn of Cathbhadh, _he knows_ that the secret will be told. He knows Uther will try to mould Arthur into his image, remind him of the evil of magic, and blind him just as he had been. And Arthur can see it – he can see his Father's influence on himself, and doubts if he's change. And now, more than ever, that terrifies Merlin.

"Get rid of it," the King then adds, harshly placing the horn in his hand and turning away. The shake of his shoulders is enough to tell Merlin that he's struggling to cope given the anniversary of his coronation, of Uther's death, and how bitter his Father's soul truly was, "I don't want to see it again."

And so he does, going deep into the forest until he finds a dark, dangerous cave, where it will remain.

* * *

Days pass, and Arthur feels better, but his Father's final words continued to scream at him.

"_Merlin has –"_

He has what? The brain of a child? The attention span of an insect? A loyalty like no other?

His thoughts consume him. Gwen expresses concern, but he palms it off, saying he's just tired. He's always felt like Merlin's hidden something from him, but he could never name it. In time, he grew to forget. He grew to accept that sometimes, people would always hide themselves from others, because to give one's self wholly to another, in love or service, is to lose themselves completely.

He cringes, _Where did _that_ come from?_

"Arthur," Gwen begins, tenderly smoothing his hair from his eyes. She smiles softly when his eyes meet hers, but then it leaves when he looks away and sits up. She hears his boots touch the ground, and she moves her hand from his head to his arm. She squeezes it, "Are you going to be alright?"

For a moment, Arthur feels like he's diseased. He tears himself from Gwen all too quickly, and as an afterthought assures her in a half-hearted mumble that he just needs time. And she understands, but at the same time she feels useless being unable to do anything.

He thinks over the possibilities. Maybe Merlin has a mental hindrance, and all those years of mocking him are actually true. He can't imagine that. Maybe he is really a woman beneath those clothes, well disguised, because he – _she?_ – believes in a better opportunity. He can't imagine that either, and when he tries, he almost retches in disgust. He thinks and thinks, but nothing comes to mind that'd be plausible.

He's right about the loyalty, though. He knows that, and though he'll never say that he appreciates it, he really does.

"_Merlin has –"_

- his mind.

* * *

By the time his thoughts consume him so much, by the time his mind _demands_ that he finds out what Merlin is hiding, he is a sickly grey, still haunted and damaged by the love his Father never had for him.

He searches the castle on fragile feet, wondering if Merlin's been doing his bloody job. When he passes other servants and questions them, they say that they've seen him maybe once or twice during the day. Someone points him towards the armoury, "That's where I last saw him go, your majesty. He doesn't seem himself, though. Are you alright, your majesty?"

He's tired of people asking how he is.

He thanks the servant in a mumble and heads there. And when he arrives, he finds that Merlin is polishing his armour, choosing to sit on the cold floor in a darker corner, away from the light. His face is determined, focusing on the metal and making sure that it _shines_ for when it is needed again. It's almost as though he wants to see his reflection in it, to see who he really is.

He wonders where that came from too.

Merlin is unaware of his presence until he makes sure to slam the door shut. Only then does he jump, drop everything and then make a frustrated face. And the servant is right – he is unlike himself. He almost seems ill. The room echoes the sound of the door, and when it reaches him again, Arthur releases a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding.

When Merlin looks to his King, he forces himself to stand a little taller and appear a little calmer. Arthur needs him, whether he will admit it or not, and he can't allow his own frustrations and concerns get in the way, "Arthur? What is it?"

"_Merlin has –"_

And then when Arthur strides across the room and makes him feel as weak as he actually is behind the mask of strength, he swallows. Arthur looks down at Merlin, emotionless and his mind still reeling with the events of days prior, "My Father was trying to tell me something about you, but he never finished."

Merlin pales.

Arthur catches it, and he furrows his eyebrows, "What do you have?"

_It's not supposed to happen this way,_ Merlin tells himself over and over, and he genuinely tries to tell him, but his voice refuses to work. There are many things he has had to hide or bury to make sure Arthur became King and so he could serve him – his talent, his feelings – and he feels like he's going to break into a run, just to hide.

"A cold," Merlin then responds simply, and then chooses to cough all over him for emphasis.

Arthur makes a face, annoyed by the reply, "He wanted to tell me about your _cold?_"

"Probably, yeah," he feigns a sniffle and a laugh. He then straightens up, because Arthur seems to be taking the bait, albeit cautiously, "'Stay away from that servant boy, he has a cold, and you will get sick and then die and my beautiful Camelot will be without a King!' Sounds about right, don't you think?"

He scratches the back of his head and then speaks again, choosing his words carefully. Clearly he is not going to get the answer he seeks as simply as he desires, "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"

There's lots of things Merlin could say. He could say that he's really thankful that they're no longer at odds with each other, and that he's thankful that he's allowed to continue serving him. After all, given that he's not 'very good' at what he does, Arthur could've easily replaced him. And yet, he's still kept around.

He could say that for at least a few years now, he has feelings for him, but has chosen to stay quiet and bury them because it is improper for a man to love another man, even punishable, especially when that man is King of Camelot. He understands that his place is with Gwen on the throne, and that he must continue the line. He understands, but it still hurts.

He could say that he is a sorcerer and always has been, and that so many times he's saved his ass, but the idea of telling him is too frightening. He doesn't know how he'd react, what he'd say, or what he'd do, and it makes him feel _sick_ that he too _doubts him._ After everything they've been through, he still doubts how he'll react.

Merlin shakes his head and wears a lopsided smile before returning to polishing his armour. Deterred for now, Arthur nods his head slightly and leaves.

"_Merlin has –"_

He won't give up.

* * *

He's not been the same since that confrontation in the armoury, he's entirely skittish. Timid, even. But whatever other words could describe it, Arthur called it 'very un-Merlin-like' and he grew very quickly to dislike it and question it.

"Are you afraid of me?" Arthur asks one day, cobalt eyes following his every move, every jump and every twitch. There's a slight shake of his head, black hair following, and Arthur leans back in his seat as Merlin takes his empty plates because, "You're lying. You are. Since when? And _why?_"

The fact that he doesn't answer hurts him much more than he expects. It only adds to his curiosity –

"_Merlin has –"_

- what_ is_ he hiding?

He's still reeling from his Father. He's still confused and angry with Morgana's betrayal, because no matter how long they've been at war for, she still grew up with him. He's still trying to get a grasp on this whole 'King' business, because even though he was prepared for it for his whole life, he still doesn't feel... _right._

"Merlin."

There's not even a glance as he stacks the plates, the cups and the cutlery.

"_Mer-_lin."

"_Ar-_thur," he counters, if only to get him off his back and he almost drops everything he's holding when he sees the King smile from the corner of his eyes. He then adds thoughtfully, "I'll be alright. The... events weren't easy for me, either. I don't like seeing you upset. It's hard to cope with – more so because then I have this emotional _clotpole_ to try and cheer up."

He laughs a little, but it stops when Merlin tries to escape too quickly. Arthur stands hurriedly and dashes across the room, because really now, a plebeian like himself can't hold _all_ of those items and carry them to the kitchen. So he snatches half the load and walks in front of him, "Come on then, we haven't got all day."

Merlin wonders if this is his way of trying to cheer him up. It works for the rest of the day when it's _Arthur_ who drops everything and has to apologise for shattering the glasses.

It's when they leave, Arthur is about to ask again; but Merlin immediately stops him, "Please don't."

* * *

When Merlin doesn't come in the next day, he's concerned, _He did look quite grey before, so maybe he's ill. Not that I look any better, according to Gwen._

"_Merlin has -"_

When Gwen suggests sending a messenger to check up on Merlin, he shakes his head and says that he will do it himself. He ignores her surprise and journeys to Gaius'. When he knocks at the door, it is Gaius who asks him to come in and then, "Sire, I'm surprised to see you here. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Is Merlin in?"

"Asleep, I'm afraid. Shall I wake him up?"

"No," he says, glancing downward, "Leave him. Tell him that he can take the day off, if he wants. He doesn't seem... himself."

Gaius nods his head slightly before adding, "And neither do you, sire."

Arthur silences for a moment. Yes, he supposes the physician is right – he's not been himself at all. He wonders who else has noticed, and then he remembers that _everyone_ has made a comment here and there. He wonders why so much has changed. He wonders why he's become so... _obsessed_ with uncovering Merlin's secret.

He bids goodbye to Gaius, who shuts the door quietly behind him. As it closes, another opens, and Merlin emerges, rubbing his face tiredly. He looks to Gaius, who offers him a small smile, "He gave you the day off. Did you hear?" A slight nod, "May I ask what's troubling you?"

And so he tells Gaius without a second thought about how Uther nearly revealed his secret, about his magic, and then he understands.

"He needs to know one day. You cannot keep hiding," he tells the young warlock.

"No," he echoes, defeated. He lowers his head, "I can't."

His shoulders shake, and Gaius suggests something like a potion to calm his nerves, but Merlin declines it immediately. He doesn't need a spell or otherwise to tell Arthur, he just needs time and the courage of a lion... which he completely lacks, but will have to find sooner rather than later.

* * *

Arthur is so... _overbearing_ one day that Merlin's shoulders roll forward and his blue eyes stare at the floor as if it's the most interesting thing on the face of the earth. The constant _tell me tell me tell me what are you hiding what do you have_ and he still doesn't think it should be this way, but he's a damn fool if he wastes this opportunity.

"_Merlin has –"_

"I'm not sure how to say it," he starts.

Arthur slows his youthful, jabbering curiosity, though it was difficult to force it to a halt. Merlin still doesn't look up at him. He hates that he's so impatient about this – the thoughts still consume him and so far he's come up with stupid things like a troll in disguise, or he's really a woman. He jests light-heartedly, hoping to relieve the tension he can feel in the air, "What? Are you in love with me?"

Arthur doesn't see Merlin flinch. He does, though, watch as he squares out his shoulders and raises his head, and there is a confidence that he's not seen in him before and it's so... _attractive._ And why is he thinking that – he's married, quite happily, to someone he loves more than words can describe.

Merlin continues almost monotonously, "I'm not sure about how you'll... react. It worries me."

"What could I _possibly_ do or say that frightens you so much into telling me _whatever_ the problem is?" he runs his fingers through his hair and looks around, finding that the corridor is as empty as when they arrived. They are alone, "Don't you trust me, after all these years?"

It's now or never. And it _can't afford_ to be never.

The words leave his lips.

"_Merlin has –"_

A man, bearing his all.

"I'm a sorcerer, Arthur."

A man, too shocked to comprehend.

"_- magic."_

"You're... You're a _what?_" he spits, his eyebrows furrowing.

Merlin carefully watches Arthur's eyes. First is surprise. Then its anger. Then its _rage_ and its here he chooses to turn and leave before things get out of hand. Of course, when he turns his back and hears Arthur shout for him to return _this instant_, he ignores it. And by not looking back, he does not see confusion and sadness.

"_Merlin!_"

The manservant leaves. He never should've said anything.

Arthur remains in the corridor, alone.

"_Merlin has magic."_

* * *

Merlin expects Arthur to come to him the next day, but he doesn't expect him to come alone. In his nightmares, he'd envisioned a platoon of soldiers and knights, his friends, coming to throw him out of Camelot, or kill him. That's the law, after all, the one set down by Uther. After all, that's why Uther would've been _so happy_ to kill him. The bane of his existence – spiritual existence, now.

"Come with me," Arthur states, but it is neither vicious nor caring. It is numb, blank.

Merlin follows, as he always does. He is given a horse. They ride out of Camelot's brilliant walls, through deep forests until they come to a large lake. He's been here before, for this is the lake that houses Freya's spirit – but he doesn't quite understand why he's been brought out here.

Arthur dismounts, and he follows. For a while in the tranquil environment, he feels as though everything's okay. But Merlin can't forget the anger in Arthur's eyes, and he is right to be so afraid of him. He is right to have been so frightened of telling him, and even now still, he shakes as he watches the sun glimmer on the water's surface.

The King, with his hands behind his back, takes a single step backwards so that Merlin is ahead of him. The servant – _the sorcerer_ – notices immediately and turns to face him, still somewhere between terrified and confused. Arthur wears his emotionless mask well as he studies the youth's face. He's never seen such fear. And _he hates it_ more than anything he's ever known.

"Show me," Arthur commands.

Without a word, Merlin nods and thinks, wondering what to show. Soon enough, he makes a decision, and with a flash of golden eyes, the water from the lake rises tall and high. It is unyielding to gravity, and it captures Arthur's attention completely. He's watching. He's learning.

Merlin's eyes flash again, and an arm of water approaches the King. Not a drop falls to the ground. It comes closer, and stern cobalt eyes follow it as it settles against his cheek and gently strokes it. It's _cold, so cold,_ but he can't contain his small noise of disbelief, of comfort, the mask completely gone; _it's so calm_ and –

- he understands.

All those times he thought Merlin was just a dull servant who was incapable of following his orders, he was wrong. All those times he thought he had no skill, he was wrong. All those times he thought he was lucky, _he was wrong._

_It was you. The whole time, it was you._

He understands.

Merlin releases the water.

It falls over Arthur's left shoulder, drenching that part of his armour and his clothes. But he doesn't mind.

Merlin throws his hands up in the air, broken, because he's just proven to the King that yes, he's a damn sorcerer. And he panics and panics and panics because he's not prepared himself for this at all, "So now what? Are you going to kill me now that you have absolute proof that I practice magic? Is that why you brought me out here?"

He makes a sour face, "Merlin –"

"It's the law, isn't it? No sorcery allowed, you know," he adds, walking to pass him and gesturing to the King, "and you _are_ your Father's son. You're not him, but I know just as well as you do that you're undoubtedly influenced by his ideals."

That somehow insults him far more than he expects, "Will you _stop?_"

"Not bloody likely," why why _why _is he like this? It's like he can't control it. He shouldn't be so afraid, but he can't help it, especially not after a lifetime of secrecy, "I'm going to get a head start before you send a damn search party after me –"

Before Merlin gets too far past him, his hand darts out, and without looking, he seizes the warlock's wrist. His grip is impossibly tight, so tight that it could bruise - he can't bear to watch his friend walk out on him so easily. Especially not when he's so afraid, _"Stop._"

And he stops. And all is silent.

"Merlin, I'm going to be honest here," Arthur starts, gazing at the still lake, and his voice is caught in his dry throat, "I don't know how I feel about magic."

Of course he doesn't.

"But I know how I feel about you," he looks to the other man, who refuses to disengage his gaze from the line of trees in the near distance, "I trust you. More than anyone. You are a good man, and I've trusted you with my life so many times. I see now that you honoured that trust more than I could've known."

Of course he couldn't have.

"Please don't leave," and he is _weak._

He lets go, and it is agonisingly slow. Merlin doesn't move. He turns to look at him, and he sees the King's weakness. It surprises him – apparently, he really is that important to him. Through his nerves, he manages a smile, and a hesitant one is returned. His fear was normal, natural – but of Arthur, he shouldn't have been so afraid.

* * *

In the many weeks that follow, Merlin is beyond delighted.

"Show me," Arthur would say in the protection of Gaius' home.

Merlin would show Arthur tricks with fire, and how he can paint beautiful scenes with them that he could never do on a real canvas. He would show Arthur how he can move objects without touching them. He would show Arthur as many controlled, harmless moves with magic as he could muster, and the King would still ask for more.

"I know that in the wrong hands, magic is bad," Merlin says, because although he is beyond delighted, he's still nervous, "But –"

"Don't say a word," Arthur counters quietly, watching as the warlock makes the small, magical animal vanish.

Arthur doesn't want to hear it, because he already knows. It's one of the few reasons he's not told people of Merlin's secret – no, not even Gwen - or banished him from the kingdom. Yes, magic can be bad – his Father had told him that many times. He had seen it for himself. But he knows that, although he's seen so little of it, magic from _Merlin_ is nothing but good, true and pure.

"You're so talented," he then adds as an afterthought.

"What was that?" Merlin asks, grinning from ear to ear, "Did you just _compliment _me?"

Arthur's not good with words, and he never has been. That's why, instead, he reaches out and hits Merlin upside the head. Merlin laughs. Arthur smiles, and it's genuine.

Merlin rolls up his sleeves, ready to show the King more magic, but Arthur stops him when he notices the bruise around his wrist. The one that _he_ left weeks earlier, and it's still not properly healed. Something forces him to reach out, something else forces him to hold it and to stroke the skin, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I was afraid you'd leave me."

He says nothing, especially not when his wrist is raised to royal lips and there's a gentle press, and then it's as though Arthur snaps back to himself right afterward because he has _absolutely no idea_ where that came from. Or why. For now, he's just glad that Gaius is not in the room at all.

When he braves a glance at Merlin's face, he's smiling. Soon, he relaxes and smiles too.

* * *

Merlin understands that Arthur will probably never wholly accept or understand magic the way that he does.

Too long did Uther's voice shape him in those years – that magic is wicked, cruel, evil – and too long did he _see_ warlocks and witches try to take his life. Too long he's witnessed the darker side of it all. He knows of healing. He knows of good magicians. But he's never experienced them.

Over time, he grows to understand a little more, but he reminds him that magic does make him uncomfortable. He then quickly adds that he understands that its part of who Merlin is and that he literally _needs_ it. So when asked why he's so curious about magic, why for so many months in privacy he asks to watch, Arthur merely smiles a little, "You're silly, you know that?"

He asks because he doesn't want to... _hate_ it like Uther did. He asks because he wants to understand _exactly who_ Merlin is beneath the toothy grin and the mop of messy hair. And although he will always feel hesitance towards it, he knows that somewhere in the world, there are many good warlocks and witches out there, like Merlin.

He just needs to see them one day.

Merlin tells him tales of dragons and the Old Religion. Arthur listens, and sometimes understands. Other times, he asks questions because he wants the images to be clear. And there are times where he asks Merlin to stop because it becomes too much for him. And he stops, thanks him for listening, and then asks if there's something he can do for his King.

"Don't call me that," Arthur says one day.

A wide grin, "Would you prefer 'prat'?"

* * *

Watching Merlin with this new understanding in a battle stuns him, for there is an unyielding courage he never knew.

It takes courage to wield a sword and drive it into the heart of a man, but it takes more of it to use something forbidden to save some and kill another, especially when it is something that is _so secret._ It takes courage to stand in the face of an army, but it takes more of it to use something that someone cannot see, to manipulate the situation almost unfairly.

Arthur watches as men literally drop dead. As blood bubbles up in their mouths, drips down their skin and as they fall to the ground, never to move again. It is almost as though such death is a pathway, and as he follows those that fall, he sees Merlin, he sees gold, and he sees such a fierce loyalty, love even, to make sure that he _stays alive._

Merlin is the bravest man Arthur's ever known. Compared to that warlock on the hill, the one who is turning the tide of the battle against Morgana and _for him,_ Arthur is but a coward, and _he feels it._

_He feels it_ in every breath he draws in then, because his teeth chatter in the cold and the shock. _He feels it_ in every movement he does then, because they are not precise. _He feels it_ in every roar, because he is in no way a lion. Not compared to Merlin. Not compared to the man who has risked so much in so many years just to make sure that he _stays alive._

He is extraordinary, and his heart thuds violently in his chest.

* * *

A week after the battle, when they are both back in the castle, Gwen greets them both with tight embraces. For Arthur, it does little to stir an emotion, and he's horrified at the prospect. He forces a smile and then mentions that he will be retreating to their bedroom for the evening, for he is tired.

And he notes that Gwen forces a smile too, "Take all the time you need."

And as expected, Merlin follows, his head downcast because he is surely exhausted as well. Maybe a little shocked, even, because it is quite a battle they won, but now the entire force knew that he is a warlock. And he's not sure how that feels. Liberating? Probably, but he needs to get over the fact that it happened now.

Arthur made them swear they'd not say a word. They promised. That is consolation enough, isn't it?

The world doesn't need to know yet.

Arthur watches Merlin as he busies himself in his chambers, making his bed, getting his clothes, putting his sword away, and so on. Before he leaves, Arthur finally breathes, "So many times you could've gotten yourself killed. Why do you keep doing it?"

And Merlin, his stupid, _dense_ Merlin, lopsidedly smiles at him, "Because you're worth dying for."

Arthur finally reaches for his friend and embraces him. It's tight. Even all this time later, with everything he now knows and understands, he's still scared to death of losing him, "You're an idiot, Merlin. A dim-witted, _inconceivably_ thick idiot."

"I'd rather be an idiot than an ass," and he simply holds him back, because he knows this is the best he will ever get.

* * *

The next day, Arthur declares magic to be legal.

That same day, Merlin's shoulders shake as he tries to hide his tears of joy.

That same day, Arthur smiles widely, "You don't have to hide. Not anymore."

That same day, Merlin affirms what he said, and his King, his friend, simply shakes his head and reminds him that he's a git; because according to him, it should be he who lays down his life for such a talented sorcerer.

That same day, Arthur reminds him – he can't pretend to understand. He doesn't have those talents. He can't pretend that he isn't still a little bitter and a little wary towards it, but not to him. He can only do what he feel is right, and with what Merlin's shown him, _he knows_ that it is.

That same day, Arthur realises that he refuses to live a life without him. Not anymore.


End file.
